failed attempts to kill thorin oakenshield
by faar
Summary: "You might be thinking that striking up a deal with Orcs is bad business. But they're all right if you don't cross them. For example, if you don't covet the same lands they wish to conquer, you should be fine." A snarky assassin has a new target.


###

The real trick to being a halfway decent assassin is to stab someone in the back. It _always_ works. Everyone around these parts expects a fair fight, where the adversaries square off each other and every single blow is perfectly in line with some ancient code of manners. It's hardly efficient. It's also quite boring.

So when Thorin Oakenshield finally deigns to come out of the Mountain to speak with that pretty elf king, I naturally try to sneak up on him.

Just to be clear; they pledged to pay my weight in coins to get this done, and I am hungrier for gold than the now deceased dragon who slept on his treasure.

The handsome stipend they already gave me is a great inducement too.

You might be thinking that striking up a deal with Orcs is bad business. But they're all right if you don't cross them. For example, if you don't covet the same lands they wish to conquer, you should be fine. One thing I appreciate about them is that they keep their word. Purely because they have almost no knowledge of subterfuge.

Of course, the deal is very hush-hush. Azog was quite nasty when he mentioned cutting off my tongue. He doesn't want it to be known that he's hired an assassin. Some might start thinking he's not up for the job if he needs outside help. But I understand him pretty well. An Orc can't fit inconspicuously into the background and take the dwarves by surprise. An Orc would get slayed at the door.

Me, I've got a shot. I've been pretending to be a Lake folk for two weeks now, just waiting for the right moment.

Laketown - or what has remained of it after it fled the actual town and camped in the mountains - is kind of depressing. There are food shortages, children crying everywhere, and worst of all, a bunch of incompetent governing figures that the dragon didn't have the decency to char.

I'm supposed to be a local seamstress, which is very convenient for me because pins and needles are very good at cutting throats. I don't mean that they're better than swords, but it's all in the swiftness. A knitting needle makes for a cleaner death all around.

I'm thinking a knitting needle is just what Thorin needs. So I bring my fare with me as I walk a couple of steps behind his escort. I'm not being conspicuous. Loads of Laketowners have gathered to watch his majesty come out of the Mountain.

Some negotiations are taking place, I gather.

I make my way through the tents and follow his figure with my eyes. He looks bigger than an average dwarf, so the cut will have to be deep and strong. This one will bleed out harder, but he will bleed anyway.

He's putting on airs of arrogance and might, but I can tell he's really just very tired. Probably why he's ready to talk it out with the elf king. His eyes are haggard, like he's seen his whole world crumble around him. I can't really commiserate. He let a dragon loose and then decided to hoard the treasure. Fair enough, I wouldn't be above doing that. But could he not – I don't know – take over a couple of villages and make the people pay taxes in his name? Much more efficient.

Outside the royal tent, dozens of elves have formed a pretty thick wall that could only be penetrated by a doey-eyed maiden in a skirt, holding a food-laden tray. Hence, my current disguise.

I stutter a little for effect. Laketowners are notoriously gossipy about elves in private, but to their face, they act like they could fall on their knees and kiss their toes.

It works, partly because I'm not the only human bringing offerings to Thranduil.

###

I wonder if I should switch sides and offer my services to the elf king. The inside of his tent is as impressive as a castle. The carpets alone could get me a safe ride across Belegaer. It pays to wear that ridiculous crown of branches.

There's already an argument afoot. Thorin has slammed his big fist on the war table twice and he's going for a third. The elf king looks pretty scandalized by this behavior, but he remains frosty and taciturn, probably refusing to stoop so low.

Now's the time to go over my retreat strategy. I get a clean shot at Thorin. It's my only true shot, because I don't foresee him paying a trip here again. The south corner of the tent is not very well protected and I know I can slip through there, and after that, it's an easy run and cover deal. I lose myself in the throngs of Laketowners and I cover my tracks in the ruins of Dale. I've memorized a safe path through it these past few days and I've stored supplies in one of the caves, so I am fairly confident I can make it on the other side and then find the Orc base at Mount Gundabad.

I'm nervous, I'll admit. I always get like this before a task. The years haven't hardened me to the point where I don't break a sweat. I know my escape is the easiest thing. The hardest is to kill Thorin-big-dwarf-Oakenshield in under ten seconds.

He's sitting down, reluctantly, to hear Thranduil's plan. This is my cue to bring the ale.

The knitting needle is hidden in my sleeve. I try to fumble with the tray until I feel the tip in the middle of my palm. I'm ready to strike.

"My lord," I mutter and start pouring the ale in Oakenshield's goblet. Why do dwarves feel the need to wear an inordinate number of beads? A haircut would improve their prospects too. Or at least improve _mine._ But I've found a good spot at the back of his neck.

 _Four…three…two…_

Out of the corner of my eye, I spot something out of place. There's a figure waiting behind me, in the semi-obscurity of the south corner. The one that's not well-protected. You wouldn't notice there was another shadow there. He's well hidden. This kind of skill takes practice. The cloak prevents me from seeing his face, but I see the blade he pulls out silently from his waist.

You've got to be bloody joking.

If this is a second assassin, Azog will have hell to pay.

I don't even think much. Well, that's a lie. I mostly think about how _angry_ I am. I hate it when I am supposed to work alone and instead encounter a second _me_.

The figure stalks forward, clearly oblivious to my own designs.

Valar be damned, now what do I do?

 _Ugh._ I know what I _have_ to do.

I pull out the knitting needle and stick it in the cloaked figure's guts before his dagger has had the chance to cut through the air.

I stick another one in his throat for good measure.

And damn it, I can't help the shriek when the blood starts gushing out. I was prepared for Thorin's blood, not this. I hate getting my hands dirty with _no_ purpose.

My back hits the table and I realize I should be yelling more and giving the impression that this unexpected turn took me by surprise. But there's enough commotion in the tent that my relative silence isn't frowned upon.

Dozens of elves have now surrounded the cloaked figure. Thorin Oakenshield has predictably unsheathed his sword and Thranduil is thundering something about 'incompetence' and 'betrayal'.

Oh, I can sympathize.

They pull the cloak down and the assassin turns out to be – a ruddy-looking fat man whom I've never seen before. He looks like a cross between a goblin and an angry in-keeper.

 _Really, Azog? This is who you hire as a stand-in?_

Well, the man _does_ look brutal and cruel. And he did a fairly decent job sneaking in. But he's the typical low-paid mercenary and he would've given himself away at one point. Orcs being Orcs, they went for the goddamn obvious.

I'm somewhat interrupted in my angry ruminations by a thick hand on my shoulder. Shaking me.

"Are you all right?" a gruff voice inquires.

I look up to find my bloody target staring down at me with confusion and relief.

"You saved my life."

Of course. That's bloody perfect. If one can sum up a failed assassin in one sentence, it's _You saved my life._

He's wrong, anyway. He would've parried the blade before it hit him. Oh sure, that idiot assassin got the gist of it right. Always strike from behind. Stab your target in the back. But don't be _stupid_ about it.

"Are you all right, girl? You look pale."

 _Girl_? Ha ha.

"I'm fine," I manage, although I want to punch myself and everyone in this tent.

"You had good instincts. Good reflexes too," he comments with a rather shrewd look. He's sizing me up, wondering just how _good_ I am and how much that's just high-spirited Laketown bravery.

All right, I have no other choice.

"Y-yes, it comes in handy when you're constantly running from Orcs and dragons and the like. A good seamstress knows how to – use her needles. Mother taught me. Well…she didn't prepare me for this. I still can't believe I – I hurt him. I've never hurt anyone."

It's not hard to stumble for words. I am making it up as I go, which is an advantage at the moment. I am certainly not feigning my erratic pulse and the trepidation in my stomach. The 'mother' mention makes his brow smooth a little. No matter the race, men will always fall for the maternal bond.

"Some deserve death's sting sooner rather than later, and this coward certainly did. You acted justly," he commends with a stern nod.

"I – I'm glad then."

"I am too." He doesn't sound glad, but that's probably his general mien. He grips my shoulder again and – damn it, he's quite strong, how will I get another clean shot?

"Your Majesty," I mutter, blushing with anger. He takes it as something else. Let him.

I still want my money.

"Would you be needing a sturdy seamstress up there in the Mountain?" I ask hopefully. Yeah, I know. Longshot.

His eyes crinkle just slightly.

"No, I'm afraid not. But I thank you for your service and you will be rewarded generously for your brave deed."

Translation, I might be given a new dress when this whole war is over. _If_ he wins. Which we all know he won't.

I sigh despondently, making sure he sees my disappointment. And then I give a little shudder because there's blood all over my clothes which hardly ever happens, because have I mentioned how I like _clean_ shots?

 _Stupid Azog. You fool_.

Thorin looks up at the elves surrounding us.

"I will not insult you by suggesting you planned an ambush, for you are more cunning and more subtle than this. But do not think I will come to this infernal place again. Next time we negotiate, you will come to _me_. I shall broker no other deals."

Thranduil is turning a nasty shade of purple.

"How dare you even insinuate – shedding blood is abhorrent to me and my children!"

"As I said, I don't believe you would stoop to this, but it proves to me just how weak and undefended your camp is. Oh, and make sure this girl is treated with respect and honor for she is better equipped at warring than you."

Well, now the elves are glaring at me. Nice job, dwarf king.

He gives me one last look and I think he even manages a polite nod before he storms out of the tent with his sword drawn.

I stand there like an idiot and think about how much I want to gauze Azog's eyes out and feed them to the rooks. That would be a satisfying experience, I think.

Thranduil reluctantly gives orders for me and 'my family' to be fed well and dressed in warmer clothes and then he commands me out of his tent with an imperious glare.

I don't know if he's as grateful as the dwarf for my "services". Something tells me the elf king _would_ appreciate some blood spilling if it were in his favor.

But what now?

Do I sit around, waiting for another opportunity, or do I give up and go pick a fight with the stupid Orc?

Well, he's bound to find out his second choice has been done in.

I do want to finish the job, but I don't see how. This was my one window, and it's lost forever.

And then, as I make my way up the ruins of Dale, a dwarf cuts my path. And it's not their king.

"You must be the seamstress. His Majesty Thorin, son of Thrain, would like to know your name."

He is thin and nimble for a dwarf. Is all his company made up of eccentric outcasts?

"Dara." Not my real name by a stretch, but one I use quite often.

"Dara," he repeats with a smile. "I'm Kili. I hear we have to thank you for your valor. Is it true you managed to stop an attack with your knitting needles alone?"

"Ah…it was all in the wrist, you see." I smile weakly and try to look shaken, as if humor is the only way I can cope with murder in this gristly world. All right, that might be true.

Kili grins. "You are a fierce warrior, then! And Laketown is lucky to have you."

He actually bows down and tries to kiss my hand. I manage to slip it away in time.

"Thank you, my lord. I hope the King will remember me." I sound like a fool, but my tongue is running thin with flattery.

"If you are referring to the one true King Under the Mountain, then yes, he will."

I am grateful that I can conceal my eye-roll, for once.

"How…exciting," I wince.

"Yes, perhaps we shall see you soon, fierce warrior! And we shall feast in your honor!" He pats my shoulder and runs off with yet another empty promise which will never be kept.

Let this be a lesson to everyone reading this; dwarves are liars and assassins work best _alone_. If you have an itch to hire a second – don't. just don't. Because I will track you down and feed your eyes to the rooks. Azog will soon know what I'm talking about.

* * *

 _A/N: Hello, this is my first Hobbit fic, so don't be too harsh :) I love black comedy and assassin tales, and I thought, what's the best way to bring them together? As you can tell, a lot of this story is AU. I hope you liked it!_


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